


By the Light of the Moon

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - His Last Vow, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, Love, M/M, Pining, S3E3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-05 05:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12788040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: The unmistakable sound of a gunshot. A puddle of blood. Clair de la Lune.When Sherlock is shot in the chest, John is left reeling and wondering who has entered in life to rip it apart again. The fact that Magnussen is helping seems to only raise more questions and when John finds out the truth, it might be just as well that he's starting to recognize the feelings he has for Sherlock Holmes.





	1. Unmistakable Sound

The unmistakable sound of a gunshot echoes through John’s skull as it bounces through the room. His legs move before his brain catches up and he’s ten feet from Janine before he realizes he’s left her alone, unconscious, and possibly dying on the floor. He hates himself for continuing to follow his feet up the stairs, recognizing that it’s a conscious decision now to choose Sherlock over her. Still, it’s not a totally unexpected decision.

As he approaches the open door, a cool breeze assaults the skin on his face and he realizes he’s sweating, a slick sheen of fear making his face sticky. Charles Magnussen is on the floor at the other side of the room as he enters it, and appears to be recovering from a nasty blunt force trauma to the head. His morbid curiosity forces him to answer his own question before he can ask it, and he finds Sherlock laying on the floor opposite Magnussen.

Sherlock’s not shaking so he’s managed to control his shock response but that won’t stop the bullet from killing him. John is screaming and screaming and screaming but realizes he’s not making any sound. Silently, like a ghost, he crouches beside his best friend and checks for signs of life—breathing? A pulse? Panic swells in his chest and he blinks tears away, forcing himself to see past the flashbacks of that same cold face covered in blood on the sidewalk outside Bart’s.

“Sherlock?” he begs, fighting past the lump of stone in his chest. He unbuttons Sherlock’s blazer and sinks into himself as a puddle of blood reveals itself, swimming across his pressed cotton shirt. He closes his eyes for a moment, vaguely conscious of the fact that he hasn’t closed them at all and that he’s yelling something at Magnussen. That a phone is in his hand and he’s dialing emergency services. He sees nothing and feels nothing. There is too much blind panic, too much cold fear.

When the first-responders arrive, they find him on his knees at Sherlock’s side, helplessly holding the detective’s hand and peering into his face as he dies. “His pulse is too weak,” he says with a cracking voice. “He’s going to die.”

One of the paramedics grabs John roughly and drags him away from his friend. He doesn’t stop him and the realization that he’s already accepted his friend’s death settles over him heavily. “Sir, we’re going to do everything we can. Can you tell me what happened?” the man demands, blocking John’s view with his wide shoulders and stern expression.

John hardly sees any of it. “He’s been shot,” he moans. “I wasn’t in the room, but you can ask him.” Turning slightly so he can point at Magnussen, he realizes suddenly that he’s still there and cocks his head at the strange criminal. There is, of course, no doubt that the man is a criminal, but he hasn’t done anything to act against Sherlock or John since they arrived and that alone is suspect.

“Did you see what happened?” the paramedic demands of Magnussen, keeping his hands still on either side of John’s shoulders.

Nerves flutter in John’s throat when he remembers this all occurred during a break-in and Magnussen could very well supply information that would result in their incarceration. _Theirs._ Perhaps he hasn’t given up on Sherlock’s survival after all.

“I’d invited them over for a business meeting,” Magnussen replies smoothly. “Dr. Watson was downstairs, no doubt checking on my assistant, Janine. Sherlock came upstairs and interrupted a burglar who was holding me at gunpoint.”

“Did you see who it was?” the paramedic pushes.

“No,” Magnussen answers calmly, his snake-eyes fixed on Sherlock’s body. John wishes he could see it, although it’s probably best that he can’t. “She didn’t uncover her face.”

“She?” John asks softly.

Magnussen’s smile is horrible and powerful, like he has found a particularly juicy fly in his web. “Clair de la Lune,” he crackles.


	2. Excuse Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that my hospital codes and understanding of hospital emergency rooms are based on Googling and my own experience in American hospitals. I totally get that the UK might have a different system (and it looks like they do based on the episode of Sherlock), but that's okay because I can't write what I don't know! :) Thanks.

The ride to the hospital is agonizingly slow, and made worse by the fact that he can’t get ahold of Mary. He’s rung her phone 27 times but to no avail and eventually he gives up. Shoving the device in his pocket, John settles on staring out the window and wishing he was in the back of the ambulance with Sherlock. There’s a feeling in his gut that he can’t identify, in part because he’s afraid to. It feels too much like indulgence and that couldn’t possibly be a healthy feeling right now.

But he doesn’t have to hide right now.

Right now, in this moment, he is having a rational, justifiable, explainable level of concern for his best friend. He doesn’t have to care about what it means or what the pain in his chest was about when he saw Sherlock’s injuries. In any case, he’s too consumed with worry right now to care about much else.

He’s grateful for a ride in a squad car rather than a taxi and he focuses on the sound of sirens blaring, ushering them forward through the city. A taxi would simply take too long, and although this ride doesn’t feel much faster, he knows objectively that it is.

Static fuzzes loudly from the officer’s hand radio before a sharp voice pours from the speaker: “Emergency transport arrival in two point five minutes. Plan blue. Over.”

John’s heart sinks and his stomach threatens to empty its contents across the dashboard of the squad car. He imagines nurses and surgeons running to prepare themselves for the imminent arrival of a patient whose condition is so critical, he cannot stop for evaluation. They don’t know his name, although they might recognize him, and they will be the ones who save him. Or not. But they won’t be the ones who killed him.

A growl builds in John’s chest and stomach and forces itself past his teeth. The officer looks at him nervously but doesn’t say anything until John suddenly slams his fist down against the door panel. Burning hot tears erupt in a cascade down his cheeks and his eyes close.

It’s hardly three minutes before they arrive at the hospital themselves, and the officer pulls them to a gentle stop, shuts off the engine, and sits quietly with John while he cries. He cries and cries and cries. He formulates an image of the shooter in his mind as best he can and imagines his hatred like a knife, stabbing through the image of a black-clad woman standing over Sherlock with a handgun. The picture melts as his fury does and he’s left with bitter fear rising in his throat like bile.

When he opens his eyes, he finds the face of a much more familiar officer looking back at him, friendly concern radiating from his expression. None of the condescending pity that’s so common in sad faces is present in this one and John sighs, as relieved as he is confused.

“Greg? How’d you get in here?” he asks, glancing around and realizing that the business around them is louder than he’d thought and it’s no wonder he didn’t hear the detective inspector climb in.

He doesn’t answer but extends a hand to John’s shoulder, gripping it and lending him whatever strength such a gesture can. “We’re going to catch the shooter,” he promises through gritted teeth. It dawns on John then that Greg is nearly as concerned as he is and he reaches up to thank him with a pat.

“Thanks, Greg,” he manages.

Recognizing that the moment has gone, Lestrade climbs out of the vehicle and into the busy parking bay of the hospital where Mary works. Hoping he’ll be able to find her now, John follows suit and enters the massive building beside a man who was arguably his second friend here.

The woman at the front desk greets them with a kind smile, the sort of smile that makes tragedy seem a little warmer, and asks who they’re here to see. Her eyes light up when they explain that their friend has only just arrived and she suddenly seems to recognize them. “But you’re a homicide detective,” she murmurs softly, peering at Lestrade from beneath long lashes. “He’s not dead, sir.”

John grips the counter with white knuckles, shaking and doing his best to remind himself that people don’t realize Sherlock Holmes could have friends. “Attempted murder, ma’am,” Lestrade snarls, holding up his badge. “Please let us know as soon as he’s out of surgery.” Without waiting for a response, he leads John to the chairs in the waiting room and takes a seat beside him.

John finds his eyes wandering forward and up and he’s grateful that Lestrade didn’t choose to sit directly in front of him. Of course, it seems he chose a seat where the clock was entirely out of sight instead and John is suddenly less grateful.

His phone is back in his hands before he realizes it and he finds himself dialing Mary’s number again, almost incessantly. It rings but she never picks up. John turns himself around to check the clock, pausing to scowl at Lestrade who smiles innocently, and decides that she might still be at work if nothing else. His eyes then fall on the nearest hallway, wondering if she’ll walk by. But of course, receptionists don’t get to leave their desks much, as is evidenced by the fact that the woman who greeted them spends their entire waiting period staring at them, either directly or while pretending to do other things.

“Did you talk to Magnussen?” John asks suddenly, keeping his focus on his hands.

“Yeah, they brought him in another car and they brought Janine Hawkins in in another ambulance. They say she’s recovering just fine, though,” Lestrade answers quickly. John wonders if he’d been waiting for him to ask. Remembering the most recent conversation he saw with Janine, he grimaces. “What’s wrong?” Lestrade pushes, noting the change of expression.

“Sherlock proposed to her,” he murmurs.

Lestrade is quiet for several heartbeats before responding in a small voice. “I’m sorry, John. I had no idea you were still…. He’s going to pull through and it might be a good time to talk to him.” Fixing him with a hard stare, John demands an explanation. “I know you guys are close and it’s pretty obvious that you mean the world to each other. Sherlock was pretty broken up after your wedding and I just sort of assumed it wasn’t mutual. I can see that’s not true though.”

Gawking, John blinks once and before practically hissing a response. “Sherlock _pretend_ proposed to her. He doesn’t love her.”

Lestrade’s expression changes to a much more positive one and he claps John on the back. “That’s great then,” he announces, clearly relieved. “Then you’re good!”

John sighs, suddenly seeing the cluelessness Sherlock so frequently speaks of in the Yard. “Janine is going to be upset when she wakes up and discovers that Sherlock was using her,” he explains bitterly. “I’m going to keep trying to call Mary, my _wife_ , to see if she can get here.”

“You don’t know where she is?” Lestrade asks, his tone changing again. His eyes are sharp and he suddenly looks eager.

“Not at this precise moment,” John admits defensively. “But I can assume she’s at work.”

“Why don’t you go ask the receptionist?” Lestrade suggests, reaching for his own phone and pushing himself to his feet. “I’ve gotta check on a couple things but I’ll be back. Call me if anything changes with Sherlock!”

Practically running from the lobby, he darts through the automatic doors and out of sight. John watches him go, his fingers hesitating on his own phone’s screen. Something stops him from calling Mary again but he isn’t quite ready to let it go and he saunters back to the reception desk with a scowl, hoping Lestrade is onto something and not just crazy.

“Excuse me, can you find out if my wife is working? She’s a receptionist in family medicine,” he tells the woman. She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Name?”

“Mary Morst—Mary Watson,” he replies, shaking his head again to clear it.

The woman nods and dials whatever extension will get her directly to that reception desk. She offers John’s name and the person on the other end seems satisfied that he’s not intending to stalk hospital personnel.

“Yes, thank you. Perfect. Mmhmm. Goodbye,” she sets the phone down gently, an obviously practiced move. “I’m sorry sir, Tori says Mary didn’t come in today. She called out sick.”


	3. It's Me

“Would you like to know, Dr. Watson?” A sly voice that John wishes wasn’t familiar sounds behind him and he turns sharply.

The neatly trimmed suit brings to mind another man in a blazer and John cringes at the similarity. “I thought you were in custody?” John asks, wishing he sounded more intimidating than he does.

“Ah, I told my story. All of it’s true this time so I didn’t have to worry about threatening anyone,” Magnussen smiles crookedly, revealing perfectly straight teeth. John finds himself surprised that none of them are pointed. “I can tell you what happened,” he repeats, leaning forward as though he’s offering a treat to a dog, just to take it away when the dog jumps.

John narrows his eyes. He wants to know. He needs to know. But something in his stiff fingers wrapped around his phone and the knot of fear in his stomach makes him think he isn’t quite ready to know. Without saying anything, except perhaps with as much as an uncomfortable shift says, he pushes past Magnussen and returns to a seat in the lounge.

Magnussen smirks, enjoying this new game, and moves to stand behind him. One hand, with impossibly long, pale fingers, lands on John’s shoulder and he squeezes gently, the way a father might comfort a sad child. “It will be alright,” he murmurs softly, his curling accent tipping the words past his lips. “I’m quite sure of that.” Turning so his hips press against the backs of John’s shoulders.

A snarl twists John’s mouth but before he can say anything about the undeniable lump against his back, Magnussen’s hand moves from John’s shoulder to the side of his face.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Watson,” Magnussen insists. “I’ll be back when you change your mind.”

Leaning forward and planting a soft kiss against the top of John’s hair, Magnussen lingers just a moment, breathing deeply before pulling away and walking out the front doors. A shudder crawls across John’s spine and into his shoulders where it pulls a shake. He glances up to find the receptionist staring at him and she shudders slightly as well.

“Are you alright, sir?” she asks, suddenly much more polite than she was before.

John means to say yes but he finds himself shaking his head, eyes wide. “Can I get water or a cuppa around here?” he asks, moving to push himself to his feet.

“Don’t get up,” she insists, holding out a hand. “I’ll get you something.” She disappears into the back of her office and John allows himself to sink into his seat, entirely sure that this day is far from over.

 

John’s eyes flutter open and he sits up quickly, realizing with horror that he must’ve fallen asleep. A cup of cold coffee is on the table beside him and he throws back the sludgy drink, shaking hard to clear his head. He glances up again and the receptionist smiles gently. “I was just about to wake you,” she murmurs. “He’s just gotten out of surgery.”

“He’s alive?” John asks, jumping to his feet. He hates himself for doubting it but pushes the feeling aside to make room for the flood of relief that drenches him.

“Yes,” she smiles. “I’ll let the surgeon know you’re ready to talk.”

John only has to wait a few minutes before a man dressed in scrubs enters the lobby from one of the large set of double doors leading deeper into the hospital. He rolls forward on the balls of his feet, clearly uncomfortable, but smiling gently. “John Watson?” he asks, reaching forward to shake his hand.

“Yes, hi.”

“Hello, I’m Dr. Steeley. Your friend is going to be alright but you should know—he died on the operating table for under 30 seconds. We don’t think there will be any long-term damage but we can’t know for sure until he wakes up. I don’t know how to explain it but he shouldn’t have made it. I’ve never seen anything like it and I’m not sure what pulled him out of it,” the man explains quickly, surprising John with his bluntness. He wonders whether his profession is listed somewhere for him to see.

John swallows hard and sways, but steadies himself quickly. “Can I see him?”

Dr. Steeley seems to study him for a moment before nodding his acquiescence and leading down the hall to a particularly nice part of the hospital. Short cream-colored carpet lines the foyer where purple, blue, and green chairs are set out for those waiting for the next change of a catheter or the next wake-up time from their loved one’s medically-induced coma. Dr. Steeley leads to a room near the stairs and leaves John outside the door, nodding politely.

It seems silly to knock when Sherlock is obviously not going to respond but something keeps John from just walking in. He’s not sure whether it’s fear at seeing the damage that’s been done to his friend or fear at confronting the feeling he’s been hiding in his stomach.

Breathing softly, he pushes the door open. “Sherlock? It’s me,” he murmurs, closing the door behind him and taking a seat set out beside Sherlock’s bed. “It’s John.”

A soft flutter dances across the tips of Sherlock’s fingers.


	4. Mary

John hesitates a moment, watching as the proof that Sherlock is alive fades from his fingers. His stomach settles into a twist of uncomfortable knots as he takes the seat beside his friend. A few minutes pass with only their gentle breathing and the beeping of the EKG machine keeping him company, until he slowly finds his fingers against the warm skin of Sherlock’s arm.

He’s surprised both at how soft it is and how strong the muscles are there. He imagines that his arms are not the exception and grimaces to think of the muscle damage in Sherlock’s abdomen from the bullet wound, as well.

“I have so many questions,” he whispers, peering at Sherlock’s face with sad eyes. His voice is soft and he doesn’t trust it not to crack if he speaks louder. “And I’m scared, Sherlock. You’re supposed to be the one to figure things out and I know you have the answers, I just don’t know if you’re going to be able to answer them when you wake up. Hell, I don’t know if you’re going to be able to speak at all when you wake up.”

He doesn’t realize his fingers have become interlaced with Sherlock’s until a knock at the door startles him away. An electric surge of energy lingers in his skin and he suddenly feels nauseous as Dr. Steeley walks in the room. Thoughts of Mary come flooding back as he recognizes the distant look in the doctor’s eyes. If he thought John had any real reason to care about Sherlock, he would look sadder.

“Hello, Dr. Watson. I know this is a difficult time but I wanted to let you know that there are some police officials here when you’re ready to talk. I told them that you were under medical supervision at the moment and not able to submit to questioning,” he says starkly.

“Questioning?” John asks, lowering his eyebrows in confusion. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Ah, maybe that’s a bit harsh,” he admits, crossing the room to check the various drip bags connected to Sherlock’s other arm. A dark look crosses his face. “I have little patience for police investigations that interfere with the progression of your health,” he admits.

John smiles, wondering what Sherlock would think of that. “Do you know who it is?” he asks.

Dr. Steeley frowns, considering. “I don’t think the receptionist said her name. She might not’ve gotten it.”

John looks away, grimacing. “Receptionists know everything,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than anything.

“If you need me or one of the nurses, just press the call button on Mr. Holmes remote or there by the door,” Dr. Steeley explains, pointing to each of the locations in a way that makes it clear he’s done it a thousand times before. “Oh, and your wife called, she should be here in about half an hour,” he adds as he leaves.

John’s eyes widen and he stares at the door where Dr. Steeley disappears for a moment before turning to look at Sherlock. To his surprise, Sherlock is looking back at him. There’s a blankness there that turns John’s stomach and for a moment he forgets the guilt of caring far too much about this man with his pregnant wife on the way to meet him.

Sherlock tries to shift in his bed, the variety of tubes, needles, and stickies making it difficult. John reaches naturally to help, pressing firmly on Sherlock’s chest both to comfort and to still him. “Hey, hey, we’re alright now. Just relax,” he murmurs, trying not to sound terrified.

There’s a chance Sherlock won’t be able to speak. There’s a chance he won’t even be able to understand.

Worse even than that possibility is the cold fear in Sherlock’s eyes and the cold sweat that boils instantly to the surface of his skin. He writhes for a moment and then suddenly relaxes as if he’s exhausted himself. John notices a machine on the other side blink rapidly and release a larger dose of whatever is keeping Sherlock on the brink of sleep. He blinks sharply as if trying to brush away the shadow falling over him and John finds himself leaning his forehead into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It’s going to be alr-“

“Mary….”

John sits up straight, staring at his friend. Have they been--? Is something happening between--? Did Mary--?

He drops against the back of his chair and stares at Sherlock, shocked, as the man drifts into oblivion.

“Mary,” John repeats, surprised that it doesn’t come out as a question.


	5. Just Paper

“Hey, Greg? Yeah it’s me. Yeah I just…where are you? There’s no time for a warrant just…just go in. There’s a key on the door frame. Yeah. Bye.”

 

Sometimes, John is grateful that he can pace. It wasn’t that long ago that he was convinced of a life-altering injury and was hard pressed to find motivation to walk at all, let alone walk purposelessly around a small room. Now, he just wishes he didn’t feel so trapped knowing _all_ he can do is pace.

Sherlock hasn’t woken up again and John hasn’t left. Preferring to remain close in case there are any changes, he sat for a while and then turned to standing. Then to pacing. Now he’s set himself in such a routine that he knows it takes five strides from his chair to the end of the room, five across to the other side, and six to the top of the room again. Sometimes, he ends up taking a total of seventeen steps instead of sixteen, though, and he’s trying to figure out where he’s working in an extra.

He doesn’t want to think but the relentless drip of an IV and his own footsteps do little to distract him, so he does it anyway. He thinks mostly of Mary. His first thought had been that perhaps Sherlock and Mary had been going on together behind his back, but the likelihood of that was so slim as to be impossible, and he dismissed it. But that didn’t leave many possibilities.

Now, he’s resigned himself to considering that Mary is somehow involved with this case. However, he’s not sure which case that is. That morning, he’d seen his…best friend…snog Mary’s friend at Baker Street. He hadn’t heard anything too explicit from the bathroom but it was clear that they were at least close enough to see each other naked, or nearly naked.

Shortly thereafter, Charles Magnussen arrived in the flat and Sherlock seemed utterly fixated on a set of letters. Later, Sherlock proposed to Janine and confessed to faking the entire relationship in order to get into Magnussen’s office. Now he’s been shot.

John’s head spins and he resolves to sit in twelve more steps when he returns to his chair. Within one day, John can count at least two, maybe three different mysteries. He supposes Janine’s interest in Sherlock and his possible interest in her shouldn’t be totally discounted as a mystery only but it hurts and he’s not sure why, so he’ll count it among the cases.

Ah, there’s the extra step. One small shuffle as he makes his way around the corner of the bed, small enough to change his pace but hardly enough to notice. He wonders how much else he’s missed so far. He can’t help noticing that Sherlock’s coat hangs on a rack nearest to this extra shuffle, and wonders if that has anything to do with his movement here.

Glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock, whose slow breathing belies the damage done by his wounds, John takes a curious step towards the famous Belstaff. Usually, there’s nothing in the pockets, as Sherlock’s memory is practically infallible and he rarely writes anything down or saves any scraps of anything. Occasionally, he’ll have a handgun in one pocket or the other, but that’s rarer than finding anything else.

In this case, John finds his curiosity satisfied when a small slip of paper brushes his fingers in the right pocket of the coat. Nerves crash in his stomach and for a moment he wonders if he even wants to know. Doubting that another chance like this will come, and convinced that it’s better to find out something he’ll hate knowing than risk not knowing at all, John wraps his fingers around the paper and retrieves it.

He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath before unfolding a simple piece of lined notebook paper. When he opens his eyes and turns the paper right side up, he lets his breath out with a whoosh, disappointed.

Milk  
Eggs  
Loo paper  
Bananas

It seems odd that Sherlock would agree to stop off at a supermarket for Janine, but it’s certainly not the strangest thing he’s ever done. Still, something about the handwriting strikes John as familiar and he stares at the short list for several minutes before it clicks. Those distinctive looping letters, so much like the ones she uses in her own name. Her own first name at least. The last name is his.

John shoves the list back in Sherlock’s pocket and practically cringes away from it, slinking back to his chair feeling significantly darker than he had before. His eyes seem impossibly heavy and he wonders whether he could close his eyes and wake up only when everything makes sense again. A soft knock on the door and Dr. Steeley pokes his head in the room.

“Dr. Watson? Your wife is in the waiting room, whenever you’re ready.”


	6. One Reason Why

“I don’t want to see her.”

The words tumble from his mouth before he has time to think about whether they’re true. He doesn’t even realize what he’s said until he’s asked to say it again.

“I said, I don’t want to see her,” he confesses, dragging his eyes away from Sherlock and up to meet Dr. Steeley’s. Suddenly, the man’s name seems much more fitting, as his piercing blue eyes threaten to stab straight through John’s self-control. “Please, doctor,” he adds, speaking quietly. “Find me a good reason.”

For a moment, the man seems unsure what to say. It’s clear that Mary isn’t close enough to overhear their conversation because he makes no effort to speak quietly when he glances from Sherlock’s still form to Lestrade’s phone number, written in squeaky red ink on the whiteboard by the door. “I suspect that you already have one, Dr. Watson.”

Dr. Steeley leaves the room with a stiff nod and sorrowful eyes, and John is left with heavy breath. Some part of him knows that the doctor likely has no idea the circumstances of Sherlock’s wound beyond what is absolutely necessary to provide medical care. It is more likely than anything that Dr. Steeley simply feels it safe to assume that if John doesn’t want to see his wife, that he has a good reason. The looks meant nothing.

They must’ve meant nothing.

Somehow, the assessment doesn’t sit right in John’s stomach, and he keels forward with a grunt. “This is supposed to be you, Sherlock,” he says again. “You’re supposed to have the answers and I’m so afraid I won’t be able to find them for you. I’m simply not good enough.”

The steady pace of Sherlock’s heart in the pulse monitor is disrupted by a leap as something inside him stirs. John wants to believe it’s anger, because being angry alone is worse than not being angry at all when things like this happen.

_Things like this._

Is this normal?

A second knock on the door draws his attention there and fear flutters through him for a moment. He shoves the feeling away quickly, hating himself for feeling that about his own wife. Regardless, his fears are proved groundless when a nurse enters. She’s wearing a simple outfit, a gesture John is sure is meant to look friendly. Somehow, it doesn’t quite settle his racing emotions.

“Dr. Watson?” she asks, peering at him with a strange expression. “Detective Inspector Lestrade is here for you,” she explains.

John sighs through his nose and claps his hands against his thighs. “Very well,” he replies as he pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll see him. Thank you, nurse.”

She raises an eyebrow at him as her mouth curls unhappily. “I’m a doctor,” she responds. “I suppose a lack of a lab coat might’ve been confusing but I can assume you’ve seen doctors in all sorts of things at your own hospital, sir?”

The woman is gone before John can respond and he stares after her for a moment, wondering at the interaction. He had no way of knowing she wasn’t a nurse, but why did he assume she was a nurse at all?

“You vastly underestimate the capabilities of the women around you,” a familiar voice says behind him. John turns with wide eyes. “Some might even call you ‘sexist’,” Sherlock adds, laughing breathlessly.

His eyes are bleary and it’s clear he’s in pain, but he’s _alive._ And he can speak. John lets out a long woosh of air, deflating as relief spreads through him.

“Is that so?” he finally manages, deciding humor will give him the best chance at maintaining his composure.

“Yes,” Sherlock responds nonchalantly. Somehow it doesn’t seem fair that the man with the gunshot wound is the calmer of the two in the room, but John supposes he could take that as his cue to calm down. “You always have.”

Trying to focus on the content of their conversation, John shrugs. “I suppose that’s true. But you underestimate the capabilities of everybody, so I don’t know whether I’m really that badly off.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, suppressing a groan as he adjusts his position on the hospital bed. The pulse monitor flares wildly and he grimaces as he tries to shift his weight, but both return to a normal state when he gives up and lays still. “No, I simply underestimate what people are capable of together,” he corrects, covering his pain with as light a tone as he can manage. “And the cost of being alone.”

John wants to glare at him. He wants to get mad and yell about something. But he isn’t convinced that Sherlock is the one to take out that anger on and he’d prefer it to be directed at the shooter instead. Although, he’s not sure he’ll be ready for that either.

“Greg is here,” John says quietly.

“I heard.”

“He doesn’t know you’re awake.”

“No.”

They stare at each other and Sherlock almost seems amused, a fact which infuriates his already tense friend. John breathes through his nose and cocks his head at Sherlock, wondering for a moment if he should simply wait for the other man to say something first. “Do you want me to meet him alone or do you want him to come in here?” he finally bursts.

Sherlock frowns and drops his gaze for the first time. “Shame those are my only options. I typically prefer to meet the Yard whilst wearing clothes—“

“Except in Buckingham Palace.”

“—but suppose this will have to do. Yes, I’d like to be part of the conversation. I suggest you don’t make it news that I am coherent just yet.”

John smirks, something about Sherlock’s effort to ignore his comment cracking the shell around the part of him that finds humor in small things. “Right,” he responds after a moment. “Do you still have the ash tray?”

There’s another pause as they stare at each other, each trying to gauge the other’s reaction. Finally, as if it was timed, they laugh. They laugh so hard they cry and John worries for a moment that the effort hurts Sherlock. The detective’s rumbling chuckle is a greater comfort than John expects and he finds that when they stop laughing he’s crying.

“I’m scared,” he manages, choking on the emotion in his throat. His jumper suddenly seems tight and his trousers suddenly seem heavy, as if every sensory nerve in his body has become so sensitive that the wide open world itself is claustrophobic. His breathing becomes shorter and the part of him that graduated medical school is very aware of his rapid heart rate. The rest of him, and arguably the more present part of him, is terrified, locked in a cage that he has created himself.

He is sinking and the world is falling away and everything he knows is wrong. He thinks he hears a baby crying, but supposes that could just be what his future holds when he holds his child and tells them that their mother was a murderer. Is that even what he believes? He wants to turn and see who’s beside him when this happens, or if he’s alone.

A slender pair of arms, stronger than they look, reach down and pluck him from the abyss. Hot skin presses against him and his tears flow uninhibited, burning his face. His breath comes in frantic gulps as he surfaces and the darkness fades a little.

“John, it’s going to be alright,” Sherlock’s voice murmurs against his hair. There is no pain in his tone although the effort it must’ve taken to prop himself up and reach out to his friend must be excruciating. “I’m going to be alright. _We’re_ going to be alright.”

It’s several more minutes before John’s anxiety attack subsides and he’s able to breathe normally, looking at Sherlock with shameful eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“Never be sorry for being human, John,” Sherlock whispers, his own eyes pure liquid as he watches his friend recover. “It’s precisely why I—well that doesn’t matter. Regardless, everything is going to be fine.”

John cocks his head, hopelessness returning to his chest and expression. “But Mary….”

Sherlock nods gravely. “Yes,” he confirms. “But Mary.”


	7. You and We

When Lestrade enters the room, it’s not to find happy faces. Not that he expected too. Instead, he’s greeted with sad, scared eyes and grimaces. He returns the look.

“It’s good to see you up,” he nods, acknowledging Sherlock.

John’s eyes narrow incredulously, making the face that usually would make Sherlock laugh. Right now, however, the detective is hardly “up,” and John can’t help wondering at Lestrade’s choice of words.

“Hardly,” Sherlock remarks, repeating John’s unspoken sentiments. “But more up than I was I suppose. What’re you here for?”

A smirk threatens Lestrade’s mouth but he maintains a straighter face, proof that he’s here for business. He glances from Sherlock to John, observing for a moment and playing with some idea in his head. Finally, he opens his mouth with a sigh and speaks.

“We think we’ve an idea of who shot you,” he begins. “We went ahead and went in your house, John, like you said, but we didn’t find anything suspicious.”

“I’m not surprised,” Sherlock interrupts, twisting his mouth into a frown. “Even I didn’t figure this out. She’s not just a gunman, she’s something much more and she has the skill set to prove it.”

Lestrade seems to shrink in on himself and John realizes that this is the first time he’s had actual confirmation that his instinct was right. “You figured it out, Greg,” John remarks quietly, a sad smile on his face. “Sherlock only knows because he was facing her when she shot him. Good on you.”

Crashing guilt seems to overcome Lestrade for a moment and Sherlock puts his head back against his pillow. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “It shouldn’t have been this case.”

This time, the smile makes its way to the surface of the otherwise stoic façade. “Maybe I just needed a better incentive,” he replies.

Sherlock tries to smirk and he nearly laughs. John and Lestrade pretend they don’t see the way he grimaces and his eyes seem to fade for a moment. John nods at the detective inspector, who makes his way casually along the other side of the bed. He makes a show of leaning over Sherlock as if to see his bandaging, casually dialing up the morphine drip.

“That’s a nasty one, innit?” he muses, trying not to actually be too interested.

“He was jealous,” John comments. “We’ve both been shot, so he wanted to join the party.”

Sherlock scoffs and Lestrade smiles again, pleased to see the banter working. Unfortunately, it can only keep up for so long. After a few moments, he resigns himself to his task and confronts them squarely.

“I need a statement from both of you, and I need you to understand that I need to arrest her. This won’t be pretty,” he finally manages, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall near the door to the room.

“What can we do?” John demands, frowning. His brow comes together sharply and he seems as apt to glare as to cry.

Sherlock glances sidelong at his friend but doesn’t say anything, drifting slowly out of consciousness as the morphine kicks in and his pain fades.

“Nothing,” Lestrade decides. “If this is going to stick, it needs to be clean. You can’t be detectives this go ‘round, you have to be victims and witnesses. Will you provide your testimony?” he directs this last at John, who quickly opens his mouth to speak. “Now wait,” Lestrade interrupts, leaning forward and tipping his head down. “This is serious, John. Are you really sure?”

The old army doctor suddenly looks much older as he surveys Sherlock. In his head, he knows the fading expression on the man’s face is due simply to the morphine, but he can’t help comparing it to the way his life faded on the floor of Magnussen’s flat. “This is serious, too,” he answers. “I’ll do what needs to be done.”

Lestrade nods, not having expected anything less. “I’m going to leave this notebook here, I want you to write down everything you can remember about tonight, and anything you can think of about any strange behavior.”

“Nothing could be strange if she’s always been…whatever she’s been. I don’t really know _her_ at all.”

“Just do what you can. And, if it matters, Charles Magnussen is saying he invited you over willingly,” he adds, raising an eyebrow. “So that might be good to include, as well.”

John is glad that he’s too shocked to response, because his smile merely seems friendly and not as a response to the comment. Probably. He blinks gratefully at Lestrade, who dips his head and leaves the room.

It doesn’t take more than a couple minutes for John to begin writing. He has to fight for the memories to come back, as it all seems like a blur. This morning, he’d woken up as a happily married man with a child on the way. Now, he couldn’t imagine even going back to that house, let alone that life.

His eyes drift back to Sherlock’s face, and he shudders. “What are we going to do, friend?” he asks the sleeping body of the greatest man he’s ever known. “What am _I_ going to do?”

“You’re going to be okay,” Sherlock slurs, the words tumbling as if unbidden from his mouth. His eyes don’t open and his face doesn’t move.

John smiles sadly and snaps the notebook shut with the pen inside, placing it under his chair. Careful not to move Sherlock too much, he puts his head down on the bed near his shoulder and allows the conflicting scents of the sterile hospital sheets and Sherlock’s musky skin to fill his lungs.

“ _We’re_ going to be okay,” John corrects, closing his eyes as his hands find a comfortable place on the bed and he drifts softly into a shared sleep with his friend.

_Friend?_

With Sherlock.


	8. Normal Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been a really fun opportunity for me to explore some headcanons that I've never really dived into before and tend not to accept. I really enjoy seeing how these things MIGHT work or WOULD work or maybe DID work and I hope you guys enjoy exploring with me. :)

“He doesn’t get to just _not_ see me, I’m his wife!” The familiar voice carries down the hall with surprising shrillness, and John can’t help being grateful he’s not the direct subject of the torrent of abuse that follows.

“Mrs. Watson, please, I can’t let you back there,” Dr. Steeley responds when Mary finishes shouting.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock glances at John, who grimaces. “I’m going to have to let her back here,” he murmurs.

“You don’t _have_ to do anything,” Sherlock corrects, speaking quietly. Something about the way his shoulders droop seems almost like he’s given up on something and John hopes it’s not on him. “You only _have_ to talk to her if you want to keep her around, or, alternatively, if you want to provide polite closure. I don’t think you are required to do either of those things.”

Gazing at Sherlock with damp eyes, John can’t help wondering whether Sherlock really understands. There’s nothing okay about what Mary’s done, but there’s a baby to consider, too. There’s the fact that if she is who Sherlock seems to think she is, then it may be more dangerous not to play along. There’s Harry and so many others who have fallen just as hard in love with Mary as he has. As he had.

He’s sure that he won’t be able to express himself, so he doesn’t try. Closing his eyes—as much to keep from crying as to keep from seeing Sherlock’s expression—he pushes himself to his feet and exits the room.

For a moment, Sherlock hesitates. He wants to turn up his morphine again and drift off into a world that doesn’t hurt quite as much as this one. He also very much wants to feel. He wants the pain to fuel his anger so that when the time comes and he’s betrayed—and he’s certain he will be betrayed—he will finally have the energy to walk away. Taking a slow, preparatory breath, he turns his morphine almost all the way off.

 

The hallway seems to warp around John as he takes each step towards his wife. _His wife._ The sterile white lines and crisp white cloths glare at him under startling white lights, and there, at the end, the woman with the perfect white smile. She’s still angry with Dr. Steeley but relaxes when she sees him approaching.

And it does seem like she relaxes.

The lines in her face turn from angry to warm relief, as if she’s been waiting to know if her loved one is alive after a near-fatal gun wound and finally just found out he is. Except that’s been John. Because of her. He hardly notices Dr. Steeley as he walks away, shaking his head sadly.

John’s senses warp again and suddenly she doesn’t seem so perfect. He wants to move towards her but whether it’s to embrace the woman he knows as his wife and the mother of his unborn child, or to lunge at the murderous beast before him, he’s not sure. He manages a gurgled greeting and she peers at him with a calculating expression.

“John,” she breathes, crossing her arms around each other and clasping her hands.

He can’t help noticing that she’s not even in work clothes; she isn’t even trying to pretend she’s been where she’s supposed to be. Black trainers catch his eye and he wonders whether they’re the same ones she wore when she stood over Sherlock’s dying body.

“Mary,” he responds stiffly.

Pressing her lips together into a sad line, she pulls her eyebrows in and cocks her head. “What are you thinking?” she asks quietly.

“About?”

She narrows her eyes, staring at him. “What do you mean _about_? What are you thinking in general?”

“About Sherlock? About his shooter? About the chores that await me when I get home from this endless day? About my wife? About you?” He notices his voice getting louder and his fists getting louder and works to relax both of them.

“Aren’t those last two the same thing?” Mary asks, her voice growing even quieter.

John wants to believe she’s as sad and scared as she looks but he doesn’t know what to believe. It might be easier to put this all aside and just take his wife in his arms, but who else is he embracing at the same time. “I’m more concerned about what those two have in common with Sherlock’s shooter,” he responds gruffly, rubbing his face with his hands.

To his surprise, a burst of laughter escapes Mary’s mouth and when he looks up, she’s smiling. “Oh, John,” she laughs, reaching out to touch his arm. He tries to pull away but her grip is stronger than he expects and he only manages to pull her towards him. “They have everything in common. I’d do it again if that’s what it took and I need you to understand that. To realize that I love you, and I love Sherlock. _That’s_ how much this meant to me. I did it anyway. For us, John.” Her voice rises almost frantically until it’s achieved that same shrill tone as before. “Don’t I deserve a normal life, too?”


End file.
